


without the wise to lead them

by pearwaldorf



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: Varric chuckles and a look crosses his face, the one she saw in Kirkwall when he was considering, reassessing things he thought he knew. “Now you’re thinking like a leader.”“But I don’t feel like one.”“But you’re doing things like one, and that’s what matters.” He pokes her in the side. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Everybody’s stumbling along the best they can: the advisors, the new Divine, even the Inquisitor. They do the best with the information and resources and smarts they have, and hope they make the world a little better with their actions. And they keep doing it, over and over, because what’s the alternative?”“Do you think it ever gets easier? Like you’ll wake up one day and know what you should be doing?”Varric laughs. She’s not sure why it’s funny, but it’s a genuine laugh, and it makes her feel a little better hearing it.
Relationships: Merrill & Varric Tethras
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	without the wise to lead them

**Author's Note:**

> [from the codex entry Untranslatable Elven Writing](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Untranslatable_Elven_Writing)

Merrill’s never seen mountains like this before. Sundermount was one thing, but she’s never climbed up, and up, and up, so high she starts to wonder if it will ever end. She never understood how dwarves could possibly be fearful of falling into the sky until now. There’s so _much_ of it and so little of anything else, she barely feels the earth at all. (But that could be the shoes. She wears them now, has since Kirkwall went to shit. They never feel quite right, despite how long it’s been.) 

Even though she's following the steady stream of travelers, it still feels improbable there could be anything up here this far. And then she comes up to the rise and sees the keep, massive and impossibly ancient. Tarasyl’an Te’las, Varric had said it was called, although she has no idea who would have told this to him. It is a place of power she can sense from even leagues away, and it tugs at something long dormant in her. Skyhold feels a bit like the eluvian, ancient and strange-familiar, but awake and purposed like the mirror never was. 

All thoughts of old magic are banished from her mind when she glimpses the small figure at the end of the bridge under the gate. Varric grins when he sees her approach, and despite her weariness, she runs the rest of the way. She sinks to her knees, heedless of the dust, and feels arms tighten around her, warm and broad. She buries her head against his shoulder. He smells like whiskey and expensive cologne, and the mingled scent is so familiar she starts crying. She laughs a little wetly and sniffles, leaning back. There’s a fondness in his look, and a suspicious shine in his eyes, but she knows there’s no point in commenting on it. 

“I’ve missed you, Varric,” she finally manages. 

He slips his hand into hers. There’s a roughness to his voice. “It’s good to see you, Daisy. More than you know.” 

—

She knows the only reason she has a meeting with the advisors is because she is a friend of a friend of the Inquisition. Once she would have been cowed by this, but her time with the Champion has allowed her to see that even fancy important people put on their breeches one leg at a time. She is introduced to them, even though she is already acquainted with Cullen. She does not know the short brown-skinned human woman. Apparently there is supposed to be another advisor, but she is off preparing to be Divine. (Merrill looked at Varric when he said this and he mumbled something about moving up in the world.) 

Josephine, the diplomat, greets her in Elven, and Merrill is surprised. She is even more surprised when her offer to teach Josephine more basic courtesies is accepted. 

Merrill turns her attention to Cullen. “Guard-Captain Aveline sends her greetings. She wanted me to let you know the troops you sent to help expel Starkhaven’s forces were appreciated.” 

“Vael always was a bit of a prig, but I never thought he would actually try to annex the city. I am glad the Inquisition was able to assist in some manner.” He smiles, just a little bit, and she knows this is not the Knight-Captain whose attention she tried to avoid in Kirkwall. 

“I do not wish to interrupt this fond reminiscence, but we do have many things to attend to.” Josephine is brisk but gives an honestly apologetic smile, and she finds herself warming to the ambassador. “Merrill, you said you had petitions from the representatives of the other alienages?” She takes out a list, laboriously compiled. Connections were forged during her time with the refugees of Kirkwall, with assistance both given and received, and she intends for those concerns to be addressed. 

Varric is waiting for her outside the meeting room. 

“So how’d it go?” 

She leans against the wall. It was a long meeting full of details and plans, and she is tired, but she feels accomplished. 

“They listened, and they made promises. I think they might keep them. I’ll make them if they don’t.” 

Varric chuckles and a look crosses his face, the one she saw in Kirkwall when he was considering, reassessing things he thought he knew. “Now you’re thinking like a leader.” 

“But I don’t feel like one.” 

“But you’re doing things like one, and that’s what matters.” He pokes her in the side. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Everybody’s stumbling along the best they can: the advisors, the new Divine, even the Inquisitor. They do the best with the information and resources and smarts they have, and hope they make the world a little better with their actions. And they keep doing it, over and over, because what’s the alternative?” 

“Do you think it ever gets easier? Like you’ll wake up one day and know what you should be doing?” 

Varric laughs. She’s not sure why it’s funny, but it’s a genuine laugh, and it makes her feel a little better hearing it.

“Let me know if you find out.”

—

The guest wing at Skyhold is quite comfortable, now that they’ve had time to work on it. She remembers Varric’s letters about branches in the main hall and holes in the roof (although the Commander apparently still has trees growing out of his, and she decides not to ask), and is glad none of these things greet her. The beds are comfortable and the rooms surprisingly cozy for such a drafty old place, and for the first few days after her arrival she luxuriates in them. It still feels not quite right though, and she wanders through the keep, letting her feet go where they may. 

She steps into the room at the base of the tower and gapes as the frescoes loom over her. She has seen faded ones in her travels of course, but never any as fine or skillfully done as the ones in front of her now. She hears the hum of people working in the library, the occasional caw of the messenger birds; and a calm certainty settles over her. 

Varric helps her move her possessions, few as they are, and deposits them next to her pallet. The quartermaster had offered to have a bed moved in here, but she never had a bed in the aravel, and she was perfectly content there, in the forest. (A small pang, then, for Mahariel and Tamlen, now lost these many years. It doesn’t hurt as often, but occasionally it is as painful as when it was fresh.) 

She sits on the floor in the middle of the room and looks around her. 

“Any specific reason why you decided to move in to this room, Daisy?” Varric looks around, like he’s expecting to see something or someone else.

“I feel like this is where I should be. And I’ll be closer to you.” 

He chuckles. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

She thinks she will start examining the unfinished fresco closest to the door tomorrow. The half-finished beast could be any number of things, and she is curious to see what it might be.

—

She climbs up the stairs to the library. Minaeve has a book for her, and she wants to see if there is anything on Dalish lore that may have made its way to the Inquisition’s collections. On her way she passes an alcove where an olive-skinned human man is reading. He has the most fanciful mustache she’s ever seen. Varric has told her about him too. She’s never seen anybody from Tevinter who wasn’t trying to kill her before, and if this Dorian is anything to go by, they’re all very dandy. And oddly dressed. She wonders how he deals with his bare shoulder in the mountain cold. He notices her staring and smirks, as if people’s attention is something he is due. He puts away his book and bows theatrically, the gesture hovering between oddly sincere and also mocking.

“You must be Merrill. Varric mentioned that his Dalish friend would be coming here. Do you know elven magic, as Solas did?” The question takes her by surprise. It’s rare that shemlen show interest in Dalish anything, Hawke being the exception. 

“We try and keep as much of the old ways as we can, although magic is becoming rarer among the People. If you’d like, I can show you what I’ve learned, although my old Keeper knew much more than I do.” She takes a breath. Marethari’s death still hurts, after all these years. In some strange way she’s glad of that. Something must show in her face, because Dorian’s expression softens.

“I would be honored to learn whatever you wish to show me.”

—

There is a tall figure in the largest, most ridiculous hat at her desk. He's arranging something in a large wide bowl, whispering under his breath. 

"Are you Cole? Varric told me about you." He feels... strange, unlike any spirit or demon she's ever encountered. He doesn't have the purity of focus or malevolence she's experienced in the presence of others of his kind.

"Delicate little daftish daisy, Dalish in illusive _e_ lusive pursuit of her eluvian. But bright and brave too, standing with her staff bared. ‘This is our home, and we will not be moved.’” She blinks, for a moment back in the alienage, hands gripping so hard they hurt, the sound of too-close fighting. He looks at her, clear and kind but also slightly unsettling. He presses the bowl into her hands.

"You aren't a flower anymore, not really. But you know that. I wonder if you'll let other people see too." He walks away from the desk, slowly, deliberately, like he’s not used to doing this much. 

She looks down at the bowl. There’s a tiny tree in it, a miniature version of the one in the alienage. There is soft moss at the roots, and little flowers of all colors. A single daisy lays at the base of the tree. She takes it and tucks it into her hair before heading out of her room.


End file.
